The work of our hands

Last week, I had the opportunity to embark on an urban mission trip to Washington, D.C. with a small group of my peers and leaders from church. We worked on a variety of service projects, fantastically organized by Greg Woods at the William Penn House--a Quaker lodging and program center on Capitol Hill, and our home base for the week. I did more service this week than I had done in several months, and, honestly, throughout the past year.

Our worked ranged from chopping rutabagas at D.C. Central Kitchen, a community kitchen that addresses hunger and provides culinary training for the unemployed, to working at 89-year-old Maureen's house, a woman who moved to DC originally to work for the FDR administration. The folks at William Penn House befriended her and have been helping her clean up and fix up her 19th century rowhouse. We also served at a picnic for some 1,300 senior citizens.

The most impactful day of work was at Marvin Gaye Park in the Anacostia neighborhood of southeast D.C. The 1.5 mile long park--so named because it is in the area where Marvin Gaye grew up--has been target of a revitalization effort begun in 2001. Led by an organization called Washington Parks and People, the effort includes a new community center with health and fitness programs, green initiatives, a farmers' market, and much more. Brian, one inspiring leader of the organization, explained the history of the initiative to us.

Riding the bus into the neighborhood, it was clear that this was a severely depressed area. In fact, as I later learned, it was until very recently possibly the worst neighborhood in D.C., in terms of poverty, crime, and the like. When Washinton Parks and People began their initiative, they sought the "worst park in the city, where they needed help most desperately," and were pointed to Watts Branch Park, now renamed Marvin Gaye Park. The park was maintained by the federal government until the 1970s, when it was handed over to the city, which stopped maintenance altogether. The park quickly became an overgrown trash dump, and with the economic troubles facing the area, also a prime spot for crime and drug use. At one entrance to the park, not far from the location of the new Riverside Community Center, was an open-air heroin market.

Even worse, the area was was some call a "food desert," meaning that there were no grocery stores for several bus-stops, only fast food. A large percentage of the nearby public housing is and was filled with single mothers. So much for a "chicken in every pot--"the failures of American society become painfully clear. The night before, we had a speaker on hunger, who noted that 1/2 of all children in D.C. are suffering from hunger or in danger of suffering from hunger. 1/2 of all children! It is no wonder that the schools are failing--how can teachers be expected to teach children when these children can't focus because they are too hungry? Welfare is not enough to cover the food costs of today, and churches and non-profits are straining to meet needs--not only of hungry children, of course, but also of the working poor, the elderly, veterans, the homeless, immigrants, and others.

Thus why part of the Washington Parks and People effort included the farmers' market and other food-centric programs. Early on in the revitalization effort, the organization got local children to sit in the place where the heroin dealers normally sold--but these children were to sell vegetables instead. Eventually, the dealers stopped coming back. The organization conducted a massive clean-up effort within the park. The things they cleaned out included:

• 1,950 tires
• 20,000 exotic invasive plants
• 20,000 bags of garbage
• 78 abandoned cars and trucks
• 7,800 heroin needles
• 2,700,000 pounds of bulk garbage

Needless to say, when Brian told us that we would be clearing out some urban jungle on one small section of the park, we were eager to help. I don't think I have ever hacked quite so madly at a bunch of weeds as I did then. All I know is that I wanted to tear those weeds out, which is more than I can say about doing yard work at home. The work was hot, sweaty, a little bit painful, and was the most worthwhile thing I had done in months.

I'm now reconsidering very seriously the concept of "work." I think that many Americans have turned their work into a sort of religion--a religion, of course, serving the almighty dollar, not necessarily in a greedy way, but in a way that is preoccupied with material standards. Many people identify themselves principally by their job--how they make money.

Before embarking on this trip, I had begun to feel sort of an itchy sense of failure at not finding a job for the summer. But this trip has made me realize that our definitions of "work" are much too limited. If we were to consider our work to be all the work of our hands (and other parts too), rather than just what we do for money, I think that we would find we are serving something much bigger, and that our identities would correspondingly be expanded. If our work is serving more than just whoever hands us our paycheck, then our boss isn't a person at all--our boss is whatever convinces us to do our work.

A Jewish carpenter in the 1st century once noted that one cannot serve two masters, for one will grow to hate one and love the other. One cannot serve her God and wealth, or complacency, or apathy, or ourselves.

Whom are we really serving in our society? Clearly not our fellow humans, if so many of them lack basic necessities like food and green growing things. I fervently hope that this will change, and that the work of our hands will be turned towards efforts like the above, as it really DOES make a difference, no matter how overrused that phrase is. For my lazy, lazy self, these metaphorical slaps in the face are needed.

And I really believe that some Congresspeople could benefit from a day of work in Marvin Gaye Park. Listen: the longer you delay and waffle on healthcare reform, immigration reform, and welfare reform, things are going to continue to be bad.


Thanks to kind folks at the William Penn House, Westminster Presbyterian Church in Charlottesville, Washington Parks and People, D.C. Central Kitchen, and Emmaus Services for the Aging for demonstrating how to get the most out of the work of your hands.

Sources:
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2006/04/01/AR2006040101105_2.html

http://www.capitalareafoodbank.org/hunger/

http://www.washingtonparks.net/wattsbranch.html

http://www.washingtonparks.net/riverside.html

The William Penn House:
http://williampennhouse.org/

Collision

Tonight, a friend and I were talking in her car, parked next to her church, when we heard a sound like the collision of glass and steel just behind us. My friend, opening her door, asked if I thought we should look, though she was already getting out.

"Yeah," I said, following her. We turned to walk down the gravel drive and saw instantly that what we heard was, in fact, the collision of glass and steel, right into a telephone pole. Someone had crashed their car.

A man was staggering out of the driver's side, and my friend called out something to the effect of "Are you okay?"

The man answered that he was, and again when I asked him the same question. He was probably a twenty-something, from his shirt we could see he was an employee at a local store, and it became clear that he was drunk. He seemed physically unhurt, fortunately. My friend immediately dialed 911--in the meantime, the man asked if I could help push his car out of the way. My friend asked, after being asked by the emergency department, if the car was in flames--no, it wasn't, though I told the man that we should probably not try to move it just then. He asked who my friend was talking to--I said 911. He was upset, shaking his head. He kicked the fallen-off bumper. My friend asked again, "is everything all right?"

He didn't really respond, so my friend said, "Your head?"

He said "No, I'm going to jail."

All she could really say was sorry, and she did. He then asked if he could use the phone. She handed him her phone; he called a family member or some other relation. I got a good look at the car, which was totaled. The passenger side had collided with the telephone pole--the window was completely shattered, the wheel had basically fallen off, the engine was visible and smoking. It looked in general like twisted black piece of scrap metal on the one side. The edge of the sidewalk was covered in glass shards. If anyone had been in the passenger seat, I'm sure they would have been killed.

The police showed up, and I told them that we had been sitting there, heard the crash, and came to see what happened. A policeman told us to wait a moment while they spoke to him. A minute later, he came back over and told us we weren't needed as witnesses since the man admitted to being the driver. We were free to go without giving information, so we did.

While we were waiting though, we saw them do his sobriety test. I felt ashamed to be watching that.

The role of chance in the situation scares me a bit--first off, that there was no one else in the car and that he wasn't injured. Second, I thought about the fact that if he had misjudged his turn or swerved or what-have-you about 3 yards over, he could have pulled into the lot and crashed right into the rear end of my friend's car. But most of all, it just seems fortuitous that we were right there, to see if he was alright and to call 911. If we hadn't been, I don't know how he would have acted--probably would have tried to move the car, as he was doing, and when he realized he couldn't, I can't say what he would've done. I can't help thinking that our location at that time was oddly well-planned.

Evidently, according to the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, 17,941 people died in 2006 in "alcohol-related" collisions--40% of all traffic deaths. I suppose that statistic is convincing, but a little more personally convincing is the twisted-up car and shattered glass on the sidewalk I saw tonight. Cars are dangerous enough on their own, without adding alcohol. This guy was more than lucky.

I've read somewhere that the key to compassion is feeling pathos for someone even when their misfortune is their own doing. Tonight certainly made me think of that. Drunk driving is unbelievably stupid, like walking through a crowded room swinging a steak knife--but this man was breaking down on the sidewalk because he knew that he screwed up. I can practically see and feel the crash in my head, and the anxiety of getting out of the car, not knowing what to do.

Keep him in your thoughts and prayers. I hope that things work out for him, and that he never gets into a car as or with a drunk driver again.

First, hello.

Blog blog blog, I will write a blog. It will be about the thoughts that bounce around inside my head, hence the name. I would love it if anyone interested would leave me some comments. Hopefully there will be some dialogue as well as monologue.

Coming soon, probably a post on the awkwardness of race at Charlottesville High School.

peace,
Daniel